


A lonely place to live with just a ghost

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He starts to forget after a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A lonely place to live with just a ghost

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the fic I meant to work on, but it's the one that was written. Funny how that happens sometimes. The title is from [You Still Hurt Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CL6a5PPLhPo) by William Fitzsimmons.

He starts to forget after a while.

_"This call...it's my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"_

At least, that's what John _thinks_ Sherlock said in those last few minutes, but it's starting to fade. If he'd known that that would be the last time he'd ever speak to his friend, he would have taken better care to remember the man's words. God forbid that Sherlock do something as plebeian as leave an _actual_ note, something John could hold on to ( _"People do - sentiment."_ ), something more tangible than his already fading memories.

But as much as he's starting to forget Sherlock, he's overwhelmed by memories of him, stupid little things that don't matter, that will never matter as much as those last few minutes. He sits in his chair and remembers Sherlock sitting adjacent to him, pontificating about tobacco ash or perfume or how _bored_ he was, and couldn't John go out and commit some horribly complicated and _interesting_ crime for Sherlock to solve? The Cluedo board is still stuck to the wall above the mantle (the result of a disastrous attempt to alleviate Sherlock's boredom) and there is still an overabundance of sheet music on the stand by the window (some printed, most notated by hand) and aside from the boxed up chemistry equipment in the kitchen, it almost looks like Sherlock's just stepped out to sneak a cigarette that he never thought John knew about.

(John always knew that Sherlock was never going to quit cold turkey, knew that Sherlock would sneak into the alley and crouch down next to Mrs. Hudson's bins to have a smoke when he thought John was otherwise occupied with making dinner to typing up a case. For a man who could be extremely deceitful when it suited his purposed, he certainly was rubbish at hiding things the things that mattered.)

John hasn't been able to bring himself to go into Sherlock's bedroom, though he knows that some of Mycroft's men had gone through and packed up half a dozen boxes before vanishing just as suddenly as they'd appeared, so he can't imagine the picture of the room that he carries in his head matches reality anymore. He doesn't want that picture, the one that helps feed his delusion that Sherlock will some day be coming back, to change and so he avoids even thinking about it if he can.

(Which is damn near impossible, truth be told, but John Watson is nothing if not stubborn and so he persists in both the trying and the failing.)

After a while, though, after the funeral and the reading of the will and getting smashed off his face and crying on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, he finds his memories slipping away. First, it's the timbre of Sherlock's voice as he rattled off deductions at light speed and then it's the self-satisfied smirk and then his snuffling-almost-snore when he'd fall asleep slumped across the desk and then the glint in his eyes when he was on a particularly interesting case.

He doesn't think he'll ever forget how Sherlock's voice cracked on the rooftop (nor how his own heart stuttered in his chest at the sound), but the words themselves get jumbled up in his head, mixed up with their conversation in Molly's lab. John knows he wouldn't have called Sherlock a robot while the other man was poised and ready to plunge to his death, but he knows that's when he told Sherlock that friends protect each other (isn't it?) and that came right after the bitten-off robot comment (didn't it?).

He never brings it up with Ella, even when she asks him about his nightmares (always falling now, never Afghanistan) or when she implores him to say the things he never got the chance to say. How could he ever say now the things he never said then if he can't remember if he never said them or not?

Sometimes, he sits in Sherlock's chair and holds Sherlock's skull (the one he'd called a friend the first time John had seen it) and tries to remember as much as he can about Sherlock. Sometimes, he puts the deerstalker on the skull and tries to imagine Sherlock's face if he ever saw it. Sometimes, he holds Sherlock's violin and tries to recall the caterwauling at four in the morning and the sonatas at six.

One day, all he can hear in his mind is the horrible tinned music that he'd heard in a shop earlier; he sets Sherlock's violin in its case, zips it closed, and sets it on the desk, never to be touched by John again. One day, he can't quite remember how Sherlock's forehead would crease in annoyance whenever the hat was mentioned; he turns the skull so it's facing the wall and dumps the deerstalker in Mrs. Hudson's bins.

One day, he can't remember if he ever knew Sherlock's favorite color or his favorite prime number. He can't remember if Sherlock took milk in his tea or how brown he liked his toast. He can't remember what type of music Sherlock used to listen to on that ridiculously expensive sound system in his bedroom.

One day, he can't remember his life before Sherlock at the same time his memories of the man are slowly but surely slipping away.

That day, he packs his things and makes his excuses and leaves his keys on Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table. And if he happens to take one of Sherlock's scarves and a stack of sheet music with him, well, who's to know?  



End file.
